Trouble With Liberty by Kristen Butcher

Chapter One
    Forget the grizzly bear.
    It should be blue jeans on the
Welcome to Sutter’s Crossing
sign. Instead of
Grizzly Country
, it should say
Blue Jean Capital of Canada
. I’ve lived in Sutter’s Crossing my entire life, and the only place I’ve ever seen a grizzly bear is on that sign. Blue jeans, on the other hand, I see all over the place.
    I slid some coins across the counter of the concession and took a long drink of icy Coke.
    Ow, ow, ow!
Instant brain freeze.
    I closed my eyes until the pounding stopped. Then I took a good look around the rodeo grounds. There were blue jeans everywhere. Even old Granny Wicks was wearing jeans — not pants, but a blue jean skirt, and for an eighty-year-old lady that’s just as good.
    I wished my mom was there to see that. It might have helped my case. My mother and I had been fighting about jeans for the last three weeks. She hates them. In her whole life I don’t think she’s ever owned a pair. I, on the other hand, happen to like jeans. And when we go into Kamloops to buy back-to-school clothes, that’s what I want to get. But Mom’s holding out for skirts and dress pants.
    I can’t believe she’s serious. I’d be laughed right out of the school! She should know that. She works in the school office, and unless she’s been typing and filing with a blindfold on, she has to know that normal fifteen-year-old girls don’t wear skirts and dress pants. They wear jeans!
    From somewhere above me a loudspeaker voice jumped into the air with the hotdog smell. “Ladies and gentlemen, once again it’s time toreturn to the grandstand. The calf-roping will be starting in five minutes. So find your seats and get ready to enjoy some championship competition.”
    I glanced at my watch. I still had half an hour before my babysitting shift at the Kiddy Korral. If Cody was one of the first contestants, I could cheer him on.
    The grandstand was already filled by the time I got there, and the people were still coming, so I quickly grabbed a spot along the fence.
    The first competitor was Wayne Caruthers, a regular on the rodeo circuit. He and his horse, Phantom, were in position behind the barrier. I looked towards the chute, trying to anticipate the exact second the calf would be released into the corral. Not that it mattered. The cowboy couldn’t leave the barrier until the calf crossed the score line.
    As the chute opened, the horse’s ears perked up and he pawed the dirt, but he made no move to leave the barrier. He knew what to do every bit as well as Caruthers did. The bawling calf trotted forward amid whoops and whistles from the crowd. Cowhands along the side yipped and waved their hats in an effort to get it moving inthe right direction. As soon as it crossed the score line, horse and rider sprang into action.
    As Phantom galloped into the open, Caruthers readied his lasso. In ever-widening circles it arced above his head. Then, like a rattlesnake striking, it shot forward and looped around the calf’s neck. Phantom dug in his hooves and the rope became taut. At the same instant, Caruthers jumped to the ground and began running down the rope. The calf bawled some more. But before it could make a move to free itself, Caruthers threw it to the dirt and tied its legs together with his pigging string. The crowd roared its approval.
    The time clock showed 11.8 seconds. It was a good time and held up easily through the second and third competitors.
    I glanced at my watch and leaned over the fence to see who was next. If it wasn’t Cody, he was going to have to win without the benefit of my cheering. But I couldn’t see past the people lining the fence, so I climbed onto a rail and cupped my hands around my eyes to block out the sun.
    And proceeded to fall into the corral — well, almost. If the man standing next to me hadn’tgrabbed my arm, I would have done a header for sure.
    Embarrassed, I thanked